Sick
by The Alien of Pluto
Summary: Sometimes, the cure can't be found. Even with an IQ of "way above genius," the answer will elude us, and we have to deal with the consequences. S02E13 alternate.


Olivia Dunham walked with her head held high. Her shoulders were squared, lips pursed, the usual blonde ponytail trailing down her back. Her heels clicked on the linoleum floor and several heads turned in her direction, curious eyes following her path across the darkened lobby.

One woman, the receptionist, portrayed more than simple curiosity in her gaze. Sympathy pulled her eyebrows together as she lowered her head back to the sheaf of papers on her desk. The receptionist frowned, blinked away the tears gathering in her eyes; she knew what it was that called Olivia Dunham to this stark, haunted building every night.

Olivia turned down one familiar corridor after the next, paying no more attention to the route that was burned into her memory than she would to breathing. Her mind was focused but not dwelling on her visit's purpose.

Six months of trekking these halls, of stretching the limits of her endurance, her nerves, her imagination. Six months of watching Astrid unravel as Walter's mind steadily frayed, shattered, while she was unable to help. Six months of watching Peter waste away, his mind on a fast track to join his father's.

Olivia breathed deep, raising a black-gloved hand to rub her nose as she rounded the last corner.

A seemingly dead end, blank wall, perfectly white, marred only by a dark square set at eye level at the wall's midpoint. She slowed her pace unthinkingly as she drew closer, apprehension building in her chest in the little nook it had dug for itself.

White wall, black square.

Pale skin, red eyes.

Olivia hesitated, fingers pausing on the way to the small control panel that would open the window. Suddenly tired, she let her hand fall, and rested her head against the whitewashed plaster. She was exhausted, emotionally, mentally, and physically. Coming here was so hard…But she had to. She owed it to him, couldn't leave him to be alone.

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut, collecting herself, and calmly pushed the top button on the panel. There was a quiet beep, and low grinding sound, the hum of electricity. Faintly, through the reinforced walls, she could hear movement: angry shouting, pounding fists.

Olivia slipped in front of the window, looking through the blood, sweat, and dirt smeared across the glass into the seemingly empty white room. A lonely bench, flipped on its side and leaned haphazardly against the wall provided the only decoration in the cell. The walls and floor were stained rusty brown, only a few streaks still wet red. Olivia cringed at the morbid scene inside, made all the worse because of who was in there.

A few months ago she would have gasped as a hand was slapped on the window, but not now; it had happened too many times to startle her. But as his face rose into view, she couldn't help the softening of her expression or the hitch of unshed tears in her throat.

"Peter…"

He glared at her for a moment, dark eyes roaming her face and the blank corridor behind her. Slowly, she saw recognition creep into his gaze, and his expression relax, but only somewhat.

"Olivia," he said, his voice hoarse, cracking, "Olivia…"

The worst thing about this was, she reflected, that he didn't know what was happening. Maybe, if he could understand, he could help Walter. He could keep his father sane, offer them reassurance, he could not fight them, maybe even help to find a cure.

But Peter Bishop was convinced that he was fine, maybe a little sick, probably just a cold. It was the rest of them that were ill. They'd betrayed him, lied to him, locked him away from the rest of the world when all he wanted to do was just get outside. He had to get outside.

"How are you doing, Peter?" Olivia whispered through the glass.

"Please," he begged, eyes wide and pleading, "Olivia please, I just have to get outside. It doesn't have to be for long, just a few minutes? I- I just have to…Please!"

Something, an annoyingly familiar something, stabbed deep into her heart as it did every night, and every day: heartbreak. As she looked into the confused, imploring eyes of her best friend who could have been something more she felt another sliver of her already damaged heart snap away.

"I can't do that, Peter. You know I can't."

His face hardened, his fingers curled into claws against the streaked glass of the window.

"You're just like them!" he raged, pushing away from her, retreating to the center of the room. "You didn't believe I could change! You turned on me the first chance you got! You were my family and you betrayed me!"

Olivia Dunham didn't cry, not where anyone could see her. But she could feel it, the scared little girl in a forgotten part of her mind was weeping, screaming for forgiveness for the woman who couldn't. Olivia couldn't meet his eyes, let her eyes focus elsewhere, on his bare feet caked with dried blood, the hospital issue pants streaked with red, his naked chest riddled with self-inflicted wounds.

"I know," she answered.

"I don't understand, Olivia," he moaned, pressing close to the window, his hand absently stroking the pane as if running his fingers through her hair. His face was once again open and innocent, red-rimmed eyes flicking between hers, searching for answers.

"Agent Dunham?"

Olivia stiffened at the unexpected voice behind her. Peter seemed shocked, and then a little hopeful as he craned his neck, trying to see passed Olivia's shoulder and catch a glimpse of the new arrival.

"Nina," Olivia said, turning slowly to face the red-haired woman.

"I…didn't expect to see you here so late," the temporary CEO of Massive Dynamic wondered.

"Well, I couldn't just leave him in some strange place to suffer all by himself. I'm sure you of all people can understand that."

"I didn't mean anything by that…Olivia," the woman drew closer, looking at the man behind the glass with heavy sympathy.

"Nina!" Peter looked ecstatic, "Nina, please! Don't leave me in here! You can get me out!"

Both women watched with horror as his face whitened further, a steady line of blood dripping from his left nostril. He raised a slightly shaking hand and swiped his thumb under his nose.

"I'm perfectly fine. It's just a nose bleed! I'm- I'm not…sick. Please!"

Olivia turned away, but Nina kept a firm stare, locking eyes with the boy who should have been dead so many years before, "I'm sorry, Peter, as much as I'd like to help, I can't do that. Please understa-"

Peter screamed his frustration, pounding the glass with his fists. He stormed away from the window, kicking the padded wall with his foot, heaving the heavy white bench upright before throwing it crashing to the ground.

Olivia took a deep, steadying breath, closing her eyes briefly. Once composed, she turned back, green eyes following her afflicted friend as he angrily paced the white cell,

"I'm going to go home now. Goodnight Nina…Peter."

The red-haired woman watched her leave, her gaze kind, pitying. She turned back to the window. Peter had frozen in the center of the room, eyes wide, hurt, staring after Olivia. Nina waited until she had turned the corner before she looked back at Peter. The blood-stained man looked no more than a small boy, hurt and lost, desperately needing comfort when none could be given.

Nina Sharp sighed, her eyes tight. It wasn't supposed to have happened like this. Not to Walter, or to Peter, and not to Olivia. With a last nod to the man in the cell, she pressed several buttons on the console next to the window. There was the hum of a generator, a metallic clink as steel shutters slid down across the glass. Peter raced to the window.

"NO!" he roared as the lights dimmed to pure blackness and Nina turned away, following Agent Dunham down the sterile, haunted corridor. There was nothing they could do for him.


End file.
